


Subdermal

by zoemathemata



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Hell, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-10
Updated: 2010-06-10
Packaged: 2017-11-10 10:53:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/465464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoemathemata/pseuds/zoemathemata
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean’s back from hell convinced he came back wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Subdermal

Dean’s different since Hell.

Not that it wasn’t expected or that it isn’t allowed, for Christ’s sake. It’s been a rough adjustment.

For both of them.

He has horrible nightmares. Screams, chokes, gags. Wakes up gasping for air and then refuses to talk to Sam about it.

Those are the good nights.

On the bad nights, he laughs.

Dean will laugh for hours.

It’s not his former chuckle or amused huff or out and out belly laugh. It’s like listening to a hyena get gutted slowly. High-pitched, alternating between sharp and flat notes. And there’s this horrible keening every couple of breaths, like metal on metal.

Sam swore he would stand by his brother and he means to, but it’s crushingly obvious he’s out of his depth.

Dean’s staring blankly at the TV when Sam sees him rubbing his fingertips against his forehead, digging in deep.

“Stop it.”

Sam doesn’t know if Dean’s always aware he’s doing it. He drops his hands at Sam’s low tone. Seconds later, Dean’s fingers are back to push at his brow-bone again.

“Dean. There’s nothing there.”

Dean drops his hands in his lap.

***

Dean is still, frozen in the motion of getting into the car. Fingers curling under the Impala’s handle on the passenger side, staring at his reflection in the glass of the rolled up window.

“Get in the car, Dean.”

Dean brushes his fingertips across the front of his forehead.

“Dean. In the car, please.”

Dean’s eyes pull away slowly from his reflection, hand lingering a little too long on his brow.

“I would tell you if there was something there. I would.”

Dean doesn’t answer him.

***

They’re watching Animal Planet. It’s not the best show for someone with post hell issues. There’s a high quotient of warm fuzzy, to be sure, but there’s also a not-so-surprising amount of predator and prey, animals cut down in the midst by Mother Nature’s Iron Fist. Watching a program on North American game seemed harmless enough until the narrator starts intensely describing how with one toss of its head the bison can impale you, the hard keratin punching through your chest cavity with crushing force.

Sam flicks the tv off, but it’s too late.

Dean has his fingers pressed up against his brow-bone since the mention of the word. Searching.

“Dean. They aren’t there.”

***  
Sam’s dreaming he’s at the dentist.

They drill and drill and drill into his teeth, all while asking him insanely impossibly open ended questions that he absolutely cannot answer with two pairs of hands, a rubber dam and a dental drill in his mouth.

_It is not the function of religion to quantify and qualify evil, but instead to redeem it. Discuss._

_Describe in detail the denaturation and coagulation of proteins as caused by a hot poker or a chemical burn._

_If Train A leaves Boston and is going sixty miles per hour and Train B leaves Los Angeles going one hundred miles an hour, from how far away can you hear screaming?_

He wakes with a jerk, disoriented and confused.

He still hears the drilling sound.

Dean’s not in his bed.

There is a sliver of light from underneath the closed bathroom door.

Dean is laughing again.

Sam’s up and at the door before knows it. Hand poised on the handle. It’s cool and slightly greasy to the touch. It turns easily under his hand.

Dean didn’t lock it.

Some dark part of Sam wishes he had.

The blood is splattered everywhere. Fine droplets sprayed against the used-to-be-white tile and never-will-be-white-again grout. It drips over Dean’s eyebrows, hitting his cheek and falling off his chin.

The drill bit is covered in blood and possibly skin, Sam’s not sure as he bats it out of Dean’s hand and sends it falling to the floor in a crash.

“I had to, Sammy. If I can get the roots out, they won’t grow.”

Dean stares up at Sam wide eyed and hopeful. Sam snaps a threadbare towel off the rack and folds it up, pressing it against Dean’s head hard.

Dean winces.

“I just gotta be sure I got it all. Or, they’ll… and it’ll…”

Sam tilts Dean’s head up and pulls the towel away to check the damage now that there’s not so much blood.

There’s two angry, gaping gouges in Dean’s forehead, one above each eyebrow. Sam’s eyes flick over the counter. The antiseptic, the knife, the spare battery for the drill.

He wants to vomit.

“Do you think I got it all? Does it look… I gotta know. Should I get the drill again?”

Sam presses the towel back to Dean’s head and wonders how the fuck he’s gonna stitch the gaping holes. He pulls Dean in to his chest, pressing his forehead in hard.

“Sammy? Did I get it all?” Dean’s voice is shaky and warbles slightly.

“Yeah,” Sam breathes. “Yeah, I think you did.”

“Really?”

Dean pulls back. Sam’s applies pressure to the towel and then winces slightly as he pulls it away again.

He leans closer to the wounds, feigns examining them.

“Looks good, Dean. Real good. Let’s stitch you up, hey?”

Dean’s shoulders sag in relief. “Okay.”

Thirty minutes later Sam applies the last piece of tape to hold the gauze down. He wasn’t able to stitch the holes completely shut; there wasn’t enough skin left so he did the best he could at the edges. They’ll give it a few days and see.

“I know it will scar,” Dean says casually, stepping out of the bathroom.

Sam can’t quite hear him as he scrubs his hands. Hard enough to leave sharp red marks on his skin. He grabs another towel and follows Dean out into the room.

“What?”

“You know,” Dean says, motioning with his fingers to his forehead. “I know they’ll scar, but that’s better than…”

He makes the gesture with his hands. Swift and quick. As if even the motion of his hands is taboo.

He’s never said the word. At least, not that Sam’s heard.

 _Horns_.

Sam just nods. Swallows hard. “You should get some rest, Dean.”

“Hey, let’s push our beds together like when we were kids!”

Dean’s voice is loud and he’s already pushing the beds together and then crawling under the covers.

Sam slides into his, stares up at the ceiling.

When he was little, he remembers curling into Dean’s warmth, Dean’s mass, Dean’s gravity. He could resist the urge to do it now, but he doesn’t want to. He shifts to his side, bending his neck until his head is resting on Dean’s shoulder.

“I got your back, bro,” Dean says lowly, patting Sam twice on the arm.

Sam’s almost asleep when Dean speaks again.

“But, we should check. In a few days. Make sure I really got it all.”


End file.
